


Strength in Pain

by ScottieIsImpatient



Series: Tears in Solace [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Hurt/Comfort, I cant write romance, M/M, Or fluff, Slash, Tuckerreed, shoddy title, sleeping together (but not like that)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24407845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScottieIsImpatient/pseuds/ScottieIsImpatient
Summary: An explosion may have more dire consequences than expected. Also Trip and Malcolm attempt to navigate their feelings towards each other following the incident.I can't write summaries.!!UNDER REVISION AS OF JUNE 21ST 2020!!
Relationships: Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Series: Tears in Solace [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803229
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sooner do I finish one angst fic when I decide to start another. C'mon, can you blame me? Malcolm is so susceptible to whump fics! Yeah, maybe I really need to give this boy a break...
> 
> Ok, to be fair, this is from Trip's POV (3rd person) this time. I've had the idea of Malcolm getting blown up in my head for a while and decided to combine it with a tuckerreed fluff fic I was working on. Thus, Strength in Pain was born! (...yeah I'm working on that title.)
> 
> Warning that there IS slash ahead; male/male, so if you don't like that, drop out now. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own and I certainly do not own Star Trek: Enterprise.

Trip lies halfway between being on his side and on his stomach, with one hand pinned beneath his body and the other searching frantically for something – someone – to hold on to. His eyes are closed but there is no doubt he is fully conscious. The pain makes sure of that.

It’s strongest in his head, which is why he keeps his eyes shut. The sunlight bothers him. He must have a concussion. Or maybe it’s just the lingering affects of the drink. The rest of him aches but nothing feels broken.

No bones, at least.

An alien medic approaches him and kneels down. Trip doesn’t see them but he senses their presence. “Go away,” he mumbles. It comes out like a groan instead.

The alien says something foreign. The language is littered with hums and hissing-like sounds. The translator isn’t functioning - it must have been knocked out in the blast.

Trip realizes that the longer he stays immobile, the more likely he’ll be carried off to some god forsaken alien hospital. With this in mind, he summons all his strength and pushes himself to his knees.

“I’m okay,” he reassures the alien medic. He – Trip decides they’re a he – looks to Trip in confusion. Trip points to the _Enterprise_ patch on his uniform, hoping to get the message across. “I’m with _Enterprise._ We’re here on a… a peaceful mission.” His voice is strangely hoarse. The alien medic tilts his head and pulls out some kind of device. He fiddles with it for a moment, before finally holding it up to at Trip and motioning with his hand for him to repeat.

“I’m with _Enterprise,_ ” Trip says again. “We’re here on a peaceful mission. I- we got caught in the explosion.”

A pause. The alien looks down at the device, presses a button, then glances up. “’We’?” he repeats. “Error?”

“Not an error.” The memories flood back unwarranted. Trip has to bite his lip so as not to start crying. “My… my companion. His name is Malcolm.”

The medic nods thoughtfully. “Same species?” he asks.

“But with brown hair. Shorter than I am, wearing the same uniform.”

“Same uniform,” the medic echoes. “Malcolm. We will search for him.” He gives what Trip guesses to be a smile. “And your name?”

“Tr- Charles,” Trip says. “Charles Tucker the Third.”

“Long,” the medic comments. “I’m Wio. You’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” Trip nods absentmindedly and struggles to his feet.

Wio the Medic grabs his arm. “You need to come to the hospital,” he insists. Trip ignores him. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he takes one tentative step forward, using a nearby pile of rubble as a support. Wio still hasn’t let go of his arm, but at least he isn’t tugging him anywhere.

“Malcolm,” Trip whispers to himself. He scans the remains of what was once a _for lease_ building. The sunlight is harsh, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes again.

 _Contact Enterprise,_ a voice inside him whispers. _They must have seen the explosion. They’ll be able to help._

But Trip doesn’t hear this voice. Rational thought has been thrown out the window, if it were ever there at all. Desperation claws at his chest like a caged beast. “Malcolm,” he whispers again.

A pathetic four steps later and what little strength he had is beginning to fail him. His skull is threatening to split open. His legs and ankles throb and scream at him to stop moving, but Trip won’t listen.

Two more steps. The ground rocks and sways. He is sure the sunlight will render him blind if he stays awake too long.

And then he spots it.

A hint of blue among the grey.

His strength is restored. With adrenaline fueling his veins, Trip jerks his arm from Wio’s grip and stumbles towards the colour. Hope dulls the pain just a bit, but it’s enough to propel him forward.

He falls to his knees. Sure enough, an _Enterprise_ patch is visible on the blue fabric. Trip doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“Help me!” Trip calls to Wio. The medic waves over a couple of his co workers, to which Trip is immensely grateful for. _Probably the first doctor I’ve encountered who didn’t question my motives. Malcolm woulda loved him._

He freezes at the past tense. “Stop it,” he hisses to himself out loud.

Wio looks at him in confusion. “You want us to stop?”

Hurriedly, Trip shakes his head. “No… please, help him…” the words come out clipped, in short gasps. Something has snatched all his breath away. Unconsciousness creeps up on him, but he has to stay awake. For Malcolm.

Trip’s vision is starting to spin. He’s somewhat grateful for this. In his disoriented state, his mind cannot fully comprehend the extent of Malcolm’s injuries. He knows it’s serious because as soon as they uncover him Wio is yelling _“bring the ambulance!”_ and another medic is staunching the bleeding to Malcolm’s abdomen and yet another is preparing a shot of something and the rest of the world seems to speed on by.

Only Trip’s is slow.

He decides to savour this.

He extends a hand and lets it rest on Malcolm’s forehead. Dirt and dust and sweat covers the tactical officer’s face. His hair is ashy and singed and nothing like his usual style.

Trip smiles and smooths down some of the most offending areas. “That’s better,” he whispers.

A familiar voice calls his name and he hears footsteps running towards him, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t lift his hand, not even when someone touches his arm. They don’t matter. He keeps his gaze on Malcolm, right up until the darkness steals him away.

_ Earlier _

“Having fun, Commander?”

Malcolm’s remark was accompanied by his usual clipped accent and a raised eyebrow. Trip winked at him and plucked one of the glasses out of his hands. “Thank you, darlin’.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows went even higher. “Didn’t the captain warn us not to get drunk?”

“’m not drunk,” Trip said defensively, but the slight slur in his voice betrayed him.

Malcolm laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

“Only two drinks,” Trip explained further. “Honestly, don’t think I should have any more.”

“I don’t blame you.” Malcolm looked at his cup like he was about to interrogate it. “These are rather strong.”

T’Pol strolled up to them as calmly as ever, her expression unreadable. “Commander. Lieutenant.”

“T’Pol,” greeted Trip.

“Commander,” greeted Malcolm.

“Enjoying the festivities?” She glanced pointedly down to the drinks each of them held. Trip grinned.

“You bet. I never thought I’d meet a species o’ alien who would throw welcome parties for off-worlders.”

“Yes, the Orati are known for their hospitality,” the Vulcan commander agreed. “They have also been known to ignore certain security protocols in favour of maintaining this reputation.”

“Nothing comes without risk.” It was Malcolm who said this. Trip glanced at him, surprised, and he could swear he read the slightest bit of amusement on T’Pol’s face as well.

“I shall bid you good evening,” T’Pol said, and promptly walked off.

“Hard to tell it’s evening with the sun always out,” Malcolm said, gesturing to one of the windows.

Trip tutted and grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders, turning him away. “No harm in pretending, right?”

The music, which had been a generic loop of various beats and alien techno, changed into a more unique sounding song. It was at a slightly slower pace, but still upbeat, and Trip found it enjoyable despite the lyrics being sung in a foreign tongue.

He placed his glass on a nearby table and stretched his hand out to Malcolm with a deep bow. “Care to dance, Lieutenant?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Commander,” Malcolm responded, his accent just as exaggerated as Trip’s movements had been.

Trip had enough alcohol and adrenaline in him to last him a week straight, though it appeared most of the crew did not share this experience. The majority of them had already left, and those remained trickled out every few minutes or so. Of the bridge crew, only he, Malcolm, and Hoshi remained. The communications officer was seated at a table nearby, happily translating the song in her head.

Neither Malcolm nor Trip knew exactly _how_ to dance. “D’you want me to lift you above my head?” Trip offered, jokingly.

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Or maybe we can do one of those fancy twirls,” Trip went on. “I dunno how good it would look, though, considerin’ we’re both wearin’ our uniforms.”

Malcolm gave him a good shove and laughed.

When their feet began to hurt, Trip and Malcolm joined Hoshi at the table. Hoshi appeared to be under the influence of at least one of the alien drinks. This, of course, only made things better.

She taught them how to swear in the Orati language.

“Technically, there’s three different words,” she explained. “They mean pretty the same thing but are used in different contexts: insulting some _one,_ some _thing,_ or as a verb. If you’re insulting someone, then…”

Trip did his best to store the information for later.

The rest of the party sped by in a blur. The only thing that remained constant was Malcolm. Malcolm holding yet another pair of drinks. Malcolm laughing. Malcolm talking to one of the Ensigns. Malcolm thanking a group of Orati. Malcolm offering to stay and help clean up.

 _Love._ Trip’s heart swelled.

The Orati had refused Malcolm’s offer to help, insisting that guests should not feel responsible for any mess made. Besides, it had been a party after all.

The two of them headed onto the open street, which was almost entirely deserted. A lone Orati was walking the opposite way on the other side of the street. If they were on Earth, the lamps would be on and the crickets would be chirping. Trip still couldn’t convince himself that they were now into the wee hours of the morning.

“I can’t imagine livin’ on a planet like this,” he remarked out loud.

Malcolm shrugged. “It wouldn’t be that bad.”

“You wouldn’t be able to brood in the dark.”

Malcolm pondered on this for a moment, then burst out laughing. “No, I suppose not.”

Trip’s heart fluttered. Courage he never thought was possible flooded every inch of his body. Trip grabbed Malcolm’s sleeve and pulled him into an alley. Malcolm only stared at him, confused. “Commander, what-”

Trip pressed their lips together, effectively cutting him off.

Part of him was surprised to be met with no resistance, and it was this surprise which prompted him to pull away.

Though looking utterly shell-shocked, Malcolm’s expression did not indicate any sort of discomfort or fear. In fact, a look of what seemed to be _relief_ began to cross his face.

“Commander,” the Brit said in a low voice, “it’s broad daylight.”

“No, it’s not,” Trip whispered back. He leaned forward once more; Malcolm ready to meet him in the middle.

And then Malcolm pushed him away.

Guilt, rejection, anger, and confusion all morphed into one at this single action. He never imagined Malcolm to be the type of guy to lead someone on. “Wha-” Trip was quickly silenced by a hand over his mouth.

“There’s someone else here,” Malcolm hissed. He wasn’t looking at Trip, but the engineer could still see the fear in his eyes.

Malcolm swallowed. “There’s someone-”

That’s when the wall exploded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been read through twice but some mistakes may have slipped through. Please excuse them.
> 
> JULY 01 NOTES: Chapter has been revised and (hopefully) improved.

After two days, five hours, and exactly thirty-one minutes of being trapped in sickbay, Trip has finally been given the all-clear by the doctor. He should feel happy. Celebrating, even. Any normal circumstance would have him meeting up with Hoshi and Travis and sharing a couple drinks. Maybe talk about how insane the explosion had been and then they’d all have a good laugh and maybe Malcolm would join them and-

Trip almost chokes on his own spit.

Because after two days, five hours, and exactly thirty-one minutes, Malcolm still hasn’t woken up.

Fortunately, Trip delays the coughing fit just long enough to stumble out of sickbay. An ensign walking past stares at him with concern in her eyes, but at least she isn’t Phlox.

“ _Koa’ra_ ,” Trip sputters out.

“Actually, it’s _Tao’ra,_ ” corrects a familiar feminine voice. Trip’s gaze shoots upwards. He hadn’t even noticed Hoshi standing there.

“You’re using it as an exclamation,” she continues. “ _Tao’ra._ Insulting some _thing_ , not someone.”

Trip clears his throat and does his best to stand straight. He has to lean against the wall using his good arm to do so. His balance is still off. “Actually,” he informs the comm officer. “I was insulting someone. Myself.”

Hoshi doesn’t respond to this. “Are you alright?” she asks instead.

Trip begins listing off all the things Phlox has warned him about. “Broken wrist, two broken fingers, concussion – that’s fading now – and apparently some kinda damage to the inside o’ my ear which’ll be affectin’ my balance.”

“I can see that,” says Hoshi. “You’re looking much better than you did two days ago, though.”

“Thanks.”

They begin to walk down the winding corridors. Hoshi must be on the way to her post, if the fresh uniform is anything to go by. Trip isn’t on duty, of course. He probably won’t be for a while. Not until his wrist heals and his hands stop shaking, at least.

For the sake of keeping some sort of normalcy, he asks, “so, how have things been goin’ on yer end, Hosh?”

“We’re… holding together.” A faint smile dances on her lips. “Harder than usual, what with our chief engineer being out of commission.”

“I’ll bet.” Trip tries to wink but even this small action makes his head spin. “I’m fine,” he mumbles to Hoshi when she tries to take his arm.

Trip closes his eyes as they enter the elevator. He listens to the hum and the whirr of the engines which power it, remembering exactly where each part had gone. He loses himself in the memory, for a moment.

“How is Malcolm?” Hoshi asks quietly. Trip’s eyes snap open. When had he closed them?

“He’s, uh…”

_“Serious second degree burns to his arms and torso, at least four broken ribs, projectiles of various sizes lodged- Captain, other than what I have already informed you of, there is nothing more I can say.”_

_They don’t know he’s awake, obviously, or they would have kept their voices down. Trip opens one lazy eye, his body still heavy and sluggish. He can’t make out much more beyond blurry shapes, but it doesn’t matter. The drugs are beginning to take affect again._

_The captain responds with a cutting tone of voice, but Trip can’t make out his words._

“I haven’t heard anythin’, Hoshi,” says Trip, back in the present. Hoshi gives him a funny look but does not press the matter further. Trip wishes she had. Wishes she had called him out on his lie. She’s hurting, too; Trip can see that.

 _But would the truth make her feel any better?_ a voice in the back of his mind whispers.

Being on the cusp of shift rotation, the bridge is a mix of alpha crew and beta crew. Trip gives a polite nod to the ensign who’d been at the helm as she walks by.

T’Pol, as usual, appears not to have budged from her seat the entire night. Trip frowns. He swears he saw her by his bed at one point, but the memory is much too hazy. He chalks it off at being his drugged-up imagination.

“Commander,” the Vulcan greets. She is one of few people whose eyes don’t flit down to the cast of Trip’s left wrist. He hides it behind his back anyway.

“Mornin’, T’Pol.”

The ready room door slides open and Captain Archer steps onto the bridge. He and Trip’s eyes meet, and, for a split second, Archer looks like he’s seen a ghost. Then, a few moments later, he exclaims, "good to see you on your feet, Commander!”

Trip smiles for his sake. “Happy to be here, sir.”

“Not on duty?” It sounds more like a question than a statement.

“Not on duty,” Trip confirms. He holds up his injured wrist. “I’m afraid I can’t anyway. Engineerin’s a little difficult when yer only usin’ one hand.”

“Not to mention your concussion,” Hoshi adds ever-so-helpfully.

Archer blinks and echoes, “concussion?”

“It’s fadin’ now, Cap’n,” Trip says quickly, shooting a subtle glare to the linguist. She only shrugs and smiles.

“I’m okay. Really. I promise I won’t go fiddlin’ around with the engine.”

“I find that hard to believe,” replies Archer, only half joking, “but alright then. I’ve been given the all-clear by the Orati government: we’re ready to break orbit.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Hoshi goes to man her post and Travis, appearing out of thin air, sits down at the helm. Trip unconsciously heads for the empty tactical station but manages to stop himself just in time. _Not on duty,_ he reminds himself. Ensign Tanner takes up tactical.

“Does that mean they’ve found who did it, Cap’n?” Trip asks. Archer gives him a sort of side glance. Trip can’t read his expression.

“Indeed,” Archer says. “If you don’t mind waiting around, I can give you the rundown in my ready room.”

But Trip’s inability to stand still is starting to get to him.

“Naw, it’s a’right, sir,” he says. “I’m startin’ ta feel a little tired.”

“I’ll send it to your quarters, then.”

“Thanks, Cap’n.”

Trip isn’t sure he will be able to, or will even be _allowed_ to, read anything yet, but another minute on the bridge or in the ready room he can’t stand. Not while everyone looks at him like he’s broken. Not while tactical is missing a certain British officer.

As the warp engine purrs to life, Trip tries to imagine being down in engineering. He imagines himself increasing the controls; running through various protocols; checking in with the ensigns. That would be Lieutenant Hess’s job right about now.

They’re travelling at warp one. _Too slow,_ Trip thinks. _Get us away from here as fast as possible._

He doesn’t head to his quarters. Not right away. At first, even he is confused as to where he’s going. Trip wanders the halls on E deck aimlessly until the wires in his brain connect and he finds himself standing in front of sickbay doors. He can’t see Malcolm from here: there’s a privacy curtain in the way. Phlox is at his desk holding something which looks like a large furry worm.

“Ah, commander!” the doctor greets when Trip steps inside. “I hope you realize I’ve given you your freedom. Or is there something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Trip says. He fiddles absentmindedly with his cast. “This thing is workin’ wonders, actually. It’s like I can feel the bone mendin’ itself.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Phlox drops his fur-covered alien worm back into its cage and approaches Trip. “Relatively new in Earth standards. Of course, on Denobula, we’ve had these things for years. What it does is-”

“All due respect, doc, I don’t think I wanna know.”

“Alright, then.” Phlox pauses. “What _did_ you come in here for?”

“I…” Trip swallows dryly. “I dunno. I guess I just wanted t’ see him.”

“Him? Oh, the Lieutenant! Yes, yes of course. Not much of a conversationalist at the moment,” the doctor chuckles, “but, um, then again, I don’t recall him ever being one.”

“That’s Malcolm,” Trip says softly. “Once you get to know him, though, he could talk yer ear off.”

Phlox raises an eyebrow. “I was not aware it was possible for human ears to fall off.”

“N-no, it’s… ah, nevermind.”

“Another human expression?” Phlox finishes with a grin. “Don’t worry, Commander. I thought so. Anyway,” he gestures towards Malcolm’s biobed, “you may, erm, visit him. No change since this morning, but I’ll keep monitoring, of course.”

“Thanks, doc.”

Trip pulls back the privacy curtain and, for a moment, just stands there. A part of him wants to flag down Phlox and say _I think I have the wrong patient here._ A part of him wants to run away.

A part of him doesn’t want to believe that the fragile man lying before him is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

He looks worse than that time a Romulan mine impaled him through the leg. Much worse. Rows upon rows upon rows of bandages are wound up his arms from wrists to shoulders. Most of his torso is covered, but Trip suspects the nasty red scars that creep up Malcolm’s neck originate from there. The left side of his face is red and blistering- recently applied burn cream glistens in the bright sickbay lights.

Trip steals a stool from the desk and pulls it up next to the bed. He doesn’t know what to say, but what does _that_ matter? He can’t hear anything Trip says.

“Hey,” the commander starts. His voice is a barely audible whisper, so he tries again. “Hey, Malcolm.”

Malcolm twitches in his sleep. Briefly, Trip’s eyes flicker downwards to the man’s hands, then back up. “I’d hold your hand,” he says, “but I don’t think you’d appreciate it very much. Looks kinda painful.”

He trails off and glances behind him. Phlox has disappeared, likely giving them the privacy he suspected was needed.

Trip opens his mouth to continue but nothing he wants to say sounds… _right._ He doesn’t want to talk to Malcolm like he’s a lost cause. He doesn’t want to give him – god forbid – pity. So, not knowing what else to do, Trip sits there and watches him sleep.

 _Creep,_ says his mind.

Some time has passed- Trip doesn't know how much. Long enough that the ship's speed has increased to warp 2. Trip sighs and gets to his feet slowly. Archer will have sent the report to his quarters by now. He should probably…

A groan interrupts his thoughts. Trip whirls around way too fast, consequently triggering an onset of dizziness. His hands grope blindly for the chair but instead land on something softer. A biobed.

“God,” Trip mutters aloud as the world stops spinning. He blinks the last of it away and straightens back up, before turning to Malcolm.

Wide, blue-grey eyes stare back at him. Trip’s mouth goes dry and he wants to say something, god, he should probably say something, because Malcolm is finally awake and here they are looking at each other like complete idiots.

“You’re… grabbing my leg,” slurs the man on the biobed. Trip hurriedly pulls his hand away. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. Commander.” A lopsided grin crosses Malcolm’s face. “You… look awful.”

“Yer one to talk!” Trip exclaims. Malcolm just shrugs, a movement which seems to take considerable effort.

“That was expected. Considering…” he trails off and frowns. “My thoughts. They aren’t… functional.”

“Probably the painkillers. They’re sure as hell t’ give you a foggy head.”

“Foggy… uh, yeah.”

Trip’s face is beginning to hurt from smiling so much but he doesn’t care. “How’re you feelin’, Malcolm?”

Malcolm considers this for a moment. “Tired,” he finally says. “Bit loopy. Numb.”

“Naw, that’s normal.”

“Was anyone else…?” he licks his lips. “Hurt? The explosion?”

“Honestly, I dunno,” Trip admits. “A couple o’ bystanders maybe. Nothin’ serious, but I’d have t’ check the Cap’n’s report.”

“Report,” echoes Malcolm. “Should… write a report.”

He tries to push himself up into a sitting position and Trip, eyes widening, flings his arms out in front of him. “Well, not right now! I said I’d have t’ _read_ the _Cap’n’s_ report. He already told me we don’t needa write one.”

Malcolm’s face goes slightly red. “Oh,” he says, and lets himself fall back down.

Trip smiles. “S’alright, Malcolm.”

“Lieutenant!” exclaims Phlox’s over-joyed voice. The man himself materializes seconds later with a hand full of hyposprays. “Finally awake, are we? Take it easy, now…”

Malcolm is obviously a bit taken back by the shift in mood. Trip restrains a small laugh as he watches the small, banged-up tactical officer fend off the doctor with alarming strength. Phlox, of course, maintains the persistence and determination every doctor must have when one’s patient is Malcolm Reed, and the Lieutenant’s head flops back down onto the pillow in defeat.

After two days, _six_ hours, and exactly fifteen minutes, Malcolm Reed has finally opened his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences begin to show themselves...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! I hope y'all are safe and doing well <3
> 
> Bit of a shorter chapter here. I kept running out of inspiration oof.

The second time Malcolm wakes up, Trip is in his quarters, rereading Archer’s report for the third time. He can practically recite it by now. Sometimes he does recite it, although it’s never a conscious choice.

The Orati government discovered the bombing to be the works of a rogue terrorist group. The initial target had been a ceremonial library next door, but, according to the local law enforcement, Trip and Malcolm’s appearance may have spooked them and inadvertently caused an accidental premature detonation.

 _“In a way,_ ” said the Orati investigator supposedly, _“we have your officers to thank for preventing the destruction of one of our most sacred locations.”_

Archer hadn’t included his response in the report. Trip suspects it was less than kind.

The “someone” Malcolm saw that night was an Orati terrorist named Elta Qi. He still hasn’t given up the names of his comrades but did take full responsibility. It seemed even the rogue terrorist Orati were perfectly fine with off-worlders. Trip and Malcolm were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It’s almost disappointing, how anti-climatic it is. Perhaps he’s just had far too many run-ins with hostile species.

Trip closes the document and pushes the chair back, exhaling slowly as he does so. They’ve been at warp for almost a day and Orati _still_ doesn’t feel far enough. Unconsciously, he brings a hand up to his unshaven face.

Trip yelps in pain as his nails graze the burns which spread across his neck and lower face.

He clutches the side of his desk and waits for the tingling pain to stop before even attempting to move again. He forgot that was the reason why he hasn’t shaved. His eyes trail over to the small round container Phlox gave him. Some sort of ointment. It smells like rotting fungus. Trip shudders at the mere thought of slathering that on himself and decides it’s not worth it.

Maybe Phlox has some painkillers, though. Or at the very _least,_ something for this damn headache he’s started to develop in the past two minutes.

Trip lugs himself upright and opens the door.

For mid afternoon, the halls are uncannily empty. It takes a while for Trip to convince himself that, no he is not on a ghost ship and, yes, there are other crew members aboard. He passes Ensign Tanner on the way to the turbolift, and Crewman Cutler as he’s walking towards sickbay.

Cutler gives him a funny look and stops briefly, seemingly wanting to say something, but ends up offering him merely a small smile and continuing on her way.

Sickbay is empty, which, Trip supposes, is a good thing. No accidents among the crew since they left Orati. A privacy curtain is drawn around Malcolm’s bed, and Trip gets a kick out of wondering who first initiated that idea- Phlox or Malcolm. Rigid, by-the-book Malcolm would _hate_ being “put on display”, as the Brit often called it.

As Trip gets closer, he realizes sickbay is not empty entirely. The Captain and Phlox are talking; their backs turned to him. They don’t even seem to notice when the sickbay doors open with a small _whoosh._

Trip’s ears catch his own name thrown into the conversation and he stops in his tracks.

“Trip is… when the explosion…” that’s all Trip can pick up of whatever Captain Archer is saying. Fortunately, Phlox doesn’t have the discretion required to lower his voice all that much.

“It appears you were correct, Captain,” Phlox says. “I have analyzed the burn marks to Commander Tucker’s torso and cross-referenced them with those on Lieutenant Reed’s body. I can confirm your theory to be correct.” A pause. “The Lieutenant seemed to have shielded Commander Tucker using his own body.”

“ _What?_ ”

The reaction is instantaneous. Captain Archer and Phlox both whirl around, sharing a horrified look between them at the realization Trip had overheard. 

“What?” Trip croaks again. His throat feels like it’s full of cotton balls. He can’t speak; can’t breathe. His legs become jelly.

_Malcolm… protected me?_

Someone asks Trip if he’s okay. Someone touches his arm. Someone tells him to _just breathe,_ but even that seems like a chore. He’s wading through a thick fog. He can’t see anything. The world tilts off kilter and he’s sent falling, falling…

Trip catches himself on the desk before he collapses entirely. He notices his legs are shaking. Archer is helping hold him up.

“I’m okay.” Trip shrugs the Captain’s arm away. “Please.”

Phlox frowns in concern. “You are looking quite pale, Commander. Why don’t you sit down?” He begins to pull out a chair, but Trip shakes his head, using the desk to brace himself.

“Cap’n,” Trip sputters out, “what’re you two talkin’ about?”

Yet another expression of horror is passed between Archer and Phlox. “Trip,” Archer begins softly, “I didn’t want to worry you-”

“ _Worry_ me?!” Trip snaps. “So you weren’t plannin’ on tellin’ me?”

“No. Yes!” Archer sighs. “Trip, listen. Up until now, it was only a suspicion based on witness accounts and gut feelings. Up until now, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to ask you. I was afraid it would… only serve to open more wounds.”

“So you really _weren’t_ gunna tell me?”

“Commander,” Phlox warns. Trip ignores him.

“Hell, Cap’n, _I’m_ the one he jumped in front of! I think that, if nothing else, should give me a right to know. I’m his-!”

He bites back the word _boyfriend_ so sudden it almost strangles him. “I’m his friend,” Trip finishes. The anger still flows through his veins; his heart beats at a million times a minute, but Trip is done yelling. He needs to get out of there, away from any other innocent people he could potentially take his anger out on.

“Sorry,” he mutters to Archer through gritted teeth. “Not yer fault. I’m gunna go lie down.”

Trip leaves without seeing Malcolm.

The third time Malcolm wakes up he stays awake, but Trip doesn’t visit him. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. “Thank you for saving my life”? “Sorry you got hit worse”? Or maybe Trip will just yell at him, the way he did with Archer. Now _that_ would go over well.

Trip has long since apologized for that, and the captain forgave him in an instant.

With Malcolm, though, it’s different. It’s different because not only did the lieutenant jump in front of him while the building exploded, the whole damn reason they were in that godforsaken alley in the first place was because Trip let his drunken confidence get the better of him. Trip dragged him in there and _kissed him_ and hadn’t thought of the consequences.

Some gentleman he is.

The fourth time Malcolm wakes up it’s because of a nightmare, which Trip only knows because he happens to be standing there at the time.

The two continue their staring match until finally Malcolm cracks a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey. Any better?”

“Loads.” The Lieutenant props himself up on his elbows and sighs. “I’ll be happy once I’m released, though. And once these… painkillers are out of my system.”

“What, don’t like being hopped up on drugs?” Trip jokes. He watches in growing concern as Malcolm struggles into a sitting position, seemingly favouring his left arm instead of his right.

Malcolm catches him staring. “Do I really look that bad?”

“Not at all!” Trip says quickly. “Just… y’know. No one looks their best when wakin’ up in sickbay.”

“Aw, not even me?”

“ _Especially_ not you.”

In all reality, Malcolm has become significantly better since the time Trip saw him crushed under all that debris. The scars beneath his left eye are practically gone, courtesy of some creature Phlox keeps around, and the bandages reach only to his elbows. Hints of more bandaging are visible underneath his shirt. The only thing either of them seem concerned with is Malcolm’s right arm.

“It’s all… tingly,” the security officer tries to explain. “It’s a struggle to move it, really. Just sort of flops around. The doctor thinks there could be some nerve damage.”

A shiver goes up Trip’s spine. “Permanent?”

“No. Apparently.” Something flashes ever so briefly in Malcolm’s eyes. “I knew I should have trained myself to be ambidextrous.”

“Well, hey,” Trip holds up his cast-clad left wrist. “I’ll be yer right arm. You can be my left.”

Malcolm smiles. “Sounds good. You’re literally my right-hand man.”

After six days, twenty hours, and exactly forty-eight minutes, Malcolm rings the bell to Trip’s quarters.

No worse for wear, Malcolm is wearing simple civilian clothes – which is to say pants and a short sleeve shirt. The burns on his hands are looking much better, though the bandages are still there, and his right arm is in a sling.

“Hey,” Trip blurts out. Malcolm smirks. “Hey,” he says. “Am I allowed in or do you have a salt barrier I can’t cross?”

“No, come in.” Trip takes a step back to allow the man inside. “You got released, then?”

“Yep. I’ve done my time. Quarters only, though.”

“Same here.”

“Still? You’ve been out much longer than I have.”

“I dunno. Haven’t really checked in.”

Malcolm stands at slight attention: shoulders straight, his one working arm clamped behind his back. Trip waves a hand. “You can relax, Malcolm. I’m not yer commanding officer. Not right now, at least.”

“Of course.” The tenseness in Malcolm’s shoulders remains, however, so Trip reaches into the very back of his desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of beer. “I only got one left, sorry. Wanna share?”

“It’s alright.”

“Aw, c’mon, Malcolm.” Trip reveals two glasses he stole from the galley a couple weeks ago. “I ain’t drinkin’ all this myself. I mean, normally I would, but I think those alien drinks are still gettin’ t’ me. Y’know?”

Malcolm nods as he’s handed his glass. His mind seems to be somewhere else. Trip knows _exactly_ where it is.

“Listen-”

“So, I-”

They’d both spoken at the same time. Malcolm offers a polite smile and says, “you go first.”

“Naw. You go.”

“I have a feeling we’re talking about the same thing, Trip. Say what you want to say.”

 _Damn you, Malcolm,_ Trip thinks. He takes a large swig of beer, an act which almost sends him keeling over, and exhales slowly. “I guess I…” he stops himself. _Way to make things about you._ He tries again. “You see, when…” no, that doesn’t sound right either. Trip frowns at his glass.

And then Malcolm chuckles.

“What is it?” Trip asks. Malcolm just shrugs.

“You. Your… _ability_ to get a conversation going. You’re always so smooth with the ladies but when it comes to men, I suppose you just trip over your words until they come to your rescue?”

“’course not!” Trip doesn’t know why he’s feeling all defensive. “Truth is… it’s always _been_ women.”

“Ah,” says Malcolm.

“And it’s just- god, I dunno, Malcolm.” Trip rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. “Just… maybe it was the drink or maybe it _was_ me or-or maybe… the party was- I think I-”

“Okay, first of all, stop talking before you give yourself an aneurysm.” Malcolm sets his drink on the desk and leans forward. “Secondly, don’t worry about your “gentleman” reputation. I’m quite good at keeping secrets.”

Trip glances up at this. Malcolm is smiling, but it’s not at all meant to be a happy one. Trip decides it isn’t his place to pry.

“Thirdly, there’s no urgency. Here, erm. What would you like me to do?”

Trip blinks. “To use a phrase, beg your pardon?” What does Malcolm mean, what would Trip like him to do? Trip can’t help but notice his mind wanders _there_ and quickly shakes it out of the gutter.

“I, uh…”

Malcolm shrugs and offers a small smile, though it looks as awkward as Trip feels. “Listen, Commander. If I may speak freely, I am not quite sure what to think either. When I boarded _Enterprise,_ it was never my intention to… socialize with the crew.”

Trip can’t help but feel a little dejected, but that was inevitable, wasn’t it? Malcolm seems to catch this and quickly continues.

“What I’m saying is, I guess I’m not sure I’m… ready.”

A heavy silence weighs between them. Trip has to force himself to break it. “Yeah,” he says finally. “No, I understand. I think I feel the same.”

He swears Malcolm relaxes a bit at this.

“D’you think you could just forget?” Trip asks. Malcolm raises an eyebrow.

“Forget?” the Lieutenant echoes. “Yes, I suppose. If that’s what you want.”

Trip can only nod. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Malcolm leans back and grabs his glass, raising it a bit. “To forgetfulness?”

“To forgetfulness,” Trip agrees. He forces a smile as he brings the glass to his lips.

Malcolm accidentially smacks his on his limp arm when he brings it back down and a string of colourful British curses erupt from his lips. Trip chuckles at this. _Things couldn’t be better,_ he’s thinking. Malcolm is awake and they’re both fine and they’ve agreed to put what happened behind them. They’ve agreed to forget.

The thing is, Trip isn’t sure he _wants_ to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot this fic existed. Whoops.
> 
> Anyway, have an update. It's not the best, but I'm quite proud of this chapter in particular.

“Your wrist has almost completely healed,” Phlox boasts proudly as he undoes Trip’s cast. The air feels weird on his newly exposed skin. “Just try not to use it too much, hm? I did say ‘almost’.”

“O’ course, doc,” Trip promises. He’s grinning from ear to ear. “Does this mean I’m free t’ return t’ duty?”

“Soon,” the doctor says. “Give it a couple days. Here.” He takes Trip’s wrist gently and winds a thin bandage around it, intertwining with his thumb. “This should protect it. Knowing you.”

“And just what’s that supposed t’ mean?” Trip teases. Phlox laughs along with him and drops the leftover roll of bandages on the desk.

“Go easy, Commander. Have you been applying the cream I prescribed to your burns?”

“Uh, yeah,” Trip lies. Phlox raises an eyebrow.

“Are you certain?”

“Positive.”

Phlox still isn’t convinced, but he lets it go. “Alright. Just know your recovery won’t be as speedy if you were to, erm, avoid applying the cream.”

“Sure, doc.”

Every movement in his wrist sends small pins and needles down his arm but at least he’s free of that cast. He tests the movements in his fingers; they seem fine. Denobulan medical technology works friggin’ _wonders._

He wants to speed down to engineering as fast as possible, but his empty stomach protests this idea and Trip instead finds himself heading for the mess hall. The aromas of all kinds of different foods – oatmeal, buttered toast, _pecan pie_ – put him into a trance. Before long, he has enough food on his plate to feed an army, as his mother would say. Trip turns around and begins scanning the room.

Trip almost doesn’t spot him at first – he’s concealed by a group of ensigns walking by. They dissipate quickly, however, revealing the lone officer sitting at an empty table, his focus on the PADD in his hand rather than the food in front of him.

“Hey,” Trip says, sitting down. Malcolm startles, clearly very absorbed in whatever he’d been reading.

“Trip,” the lieutenant gasps out with a small laugh. “Bloody hell, I nearly jumped out of my skin.”

“What’re you readin’?” Trip digs into his pecan pie. _Life’s unpredictable, so eat desert first._

Malcolm’s eyes flit down the PADD ever so briefly, then back up at Trip. “Nothing important,” he says, a little too quickly; a little too calmly.

Trip frowns and opens his mouth to pry further but Malcolm’s _please don’t_ gaze stops him. He clears his throat.

“I see your cast has been removed,” Malcolm observes. Trip nods and holds up his left arm.

“Not quite healed, hence the wrappings.”

“Back on duty soon, then?”

As subtle as it is, Trip catches the accusing tone in the man’s voice. _Retaliate,_ says his brain. Trip plasters on a smile instead and says, “’fraid to have me back on the engines, Lieutenant? C’mon, y’know I’m, at the very least, _competent_.” He says the last word in a mock British accent, but Malcolm’s sharp gaze indicates he doesn’t find any humour in it. Trip’s smile vanishes. Something is wrong.

Malcolm runs a hand through his hair and lowers his eyes. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.” Trip’s heart is pounding. Suddenly, the rest of the crew around them have vanished, and nothing else is more important than the two of them. “Somethin’ on yer mind?”

A stupid question to ask and he knows it, but Malcolm isn’t listening anymore. He’s returned his focus to the PADD, muttering under his breath. Trip takes a bite of pie, but it might as well have been sawdust, and watches the man carefully.

“I have to go,” Malcolm says abruptly. Alarm bells go off in Trip’s head.

“Are ya sure? You haven’t finished yer breakfast.”

Malcolm doesn’t answer this, but Trip can guess the response.

“See you later,” Malcolm says, before promptly scooping the PADD off the table and hurrying away. Trip watches him go, a feeling of foreboding slowly clouding over him.

Something is wrong, Trip thinks. Was it the conversation they had last night? Had he messed up? He hadn’t exactly been the smoothest, as Malcolm had pointed out, but by all accounts, the Lieutenant seemed perfectly alright with… well, everything. In fact, he was almost optimistic in his attitude. What changed?

Trip pushes his tray away, his appetite suddenly lost. _It’s not my place to ask,_ he thinks. _He’ll come to me if he needs to._

Aw, who is he kidding? Malcolm won’t go to _anyone_ when he needs help, not even if he were bleeding to death. His mind is never on himself, no matter the situation.

“Let it go,” Trip tells himself quietly. Luckily, no one hears him.

He’ll go down to engineering. He’ll get lost in his work, and soon this will all be behind him and Malcolm will, no doubt, go back to normal at the end of the day.

Trip almost believes this.

He runs into T’Pol on the way up. She greets him with a singular raised eyebrow and a slight inclination of her head, and Trip may not be the best at reading Vulcan expressions, but he swears there’s a hint of delight in her eyes. “Commander Tucker. On your way to engineering, I presume?”

“You know me too well,” Trip replies with a wink. If T’Pol catches onto his slightly dirty little joke, she gives no indication.

“The Captain is eagerly awaiting your return to duty,” she informs him. “I would hate to see him become… disappointed if you injure yourself more and further delay your return.”

Point taken. “I’ll try to remember.”

T’Pol looks almost smug as she walks away. Trip frowns and shakes his head. _Better call Phlox if I start seeing more unbelievable stuff like that._ He steps into the elevator and presses the button to Deck D, a sense of eager anticipation slowly replacing the foreboding feeling.

Barely through the doors yet, a crowd of ensigns gather in a flurry of grins and pats on the back. They ask the usual questions – how are you feeling, what happened, when are you back on full duty – before dispersing again. For a moment, Trip stands dumbly just a few feet in the doorway, taking in the view that’s never felt so inviting. Lieutenant Hess waves at him from across the room. He smiles and heads for a calibration desk, when an all too familiar figure catches his eye.

Malcolm is hidden away in the corner, apparently rifling through a box of spare parts with the help of Ensign Drake. The Ensign holds up a part and asks something, to which Malcolm just shakes his head.

 _What the hell are you doing here?_ Trip thinks. It wasn’t twenty minutes ago that Malcolm was in the mess hall, a PADD in his hand and a glazed look in his eyes.

The worry is back: a beast clawing at his stomach. Trip forces it down, takes a deep breath, and slowly makes his way towards Drake and Malcolm. Drake catches sight of him before Malcolm does.

“Sir!” the Irish ensign says, his smile splitting his face in half. “Glad ta see ya. I’ll be gettin’ back ta workin’ soon.”

“No worries,” says Trip. “Malcolm what’re you doin’ here?”

“Working on something,” mumbles the security officer, his tone exasperated, and Trip frowns yet again. In the harsh lighting of engineering, he can see clearly the dark circles underneath Malcolm’s eyes and the faint scars which trail up his neck and sprawl out over the left side of his face. They lock eyes and Malcolm’s narrow. “Can you just leave me alone?” he snaps. It’s more like a whispering plea than a remark of anger.

 _No!_ Trip’s mind screams. _I’m not leaving you alone. What’s going on? Are you okay?_

There are so many things he wants to say. What comes out instead is, “ah. Good luck, then.”

_Charles Tucker the Third, you are utterly pathetic._

Malcolm nods and returns his attention back to the spare parts, but there’s no focus in his eyes this time. “This’ll do, ensign,” he says, holding up a part of the old EPS wiring. Ensign Drake looks at him, confused.

“Sir, that don’t-”

“It’s fine,” Malcolm says firmly. He doesn’t so much as glance in Trip’s direction as he leaves engineering.

Trip and Ensign Drake share a look. Though he seems to be bursting to ask, the ensign merely smiles politely and returns to his duties, leaving Trip standing there, dumbfounded. Something is wrong; no doubt this time. He knows pestering Malcolm to open up is the worst thing he could possibly do, but he sees no other option.

Trip follows him.

Malcolm – a creature of habit, it seems – heads to the armoury. Trip follows a good ways behind and makes sure the other man doesn’t see him. He feels like a stalker. A couple ensigns walking by give him a funny look, but he ignores them.

At one point, Trip is sure Malcolm’s sixth sense kicks in. The Lieutenant comes to a sudden halt and glances over his shoulder with the slightest movement. Whether he notices Trip or not, it doesn’t matter, because he continues down the hall and opens the armoury doors.

There are only two or three crewmen on duty; all of them spaced out and apparently perfectly happy working alone. Is it an armoury thing, then? Trip wonders dryly.

Malcolm heads towards an unoccupied work desk and sits down with his back to the door. Trip darts through the doors before they can slide shut, earning yet another weird look from an ensign.

Malcolm pulls an assortment of parts from every pocket on his uniform. From this distance, Trip can’t identify them all, but it looks like Malcolm is trying to reroute something in the scanner he’s holding.

 _Malcolm,_ thinks Trip, _yer not an engineer._

Malcolm seems to be realizing this, too, and not only that. Distress is beginning to fill those blue-grey eyes when it occurs that trying to upgrade a scanner with only one hand is difficult, if not impossible. A crewman approaches him, but Malcolm’s glare pushes her away before she can even open her mouth.

It’s now that Trip makes his move.

“Malcolm!” he calls casually, putting on his best _I-totally-wasn’t-following-you_ smile. The Lieutenant practically jumps out of his seat and whirls around so fast it almost causes the sling to fall loose.

“Trip,” Malcolm says. “I knew it.”

“Huh?”

“You were stalking me.” Malcolm’s grin is obviously forced. “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

Trip’s face reddens. “I-I was gunna-”

“Don’t worry,” Malcolm says with a wave of his hand. “I won’t report you to the captain. Actually, might I keep you here? I’ll need some assistance with this.”

 _Have you gone_ mad?! Trip yells in his mind. “Malcolm-”

“Nothing too big,” the Lieutenant continues, oblivious to – or perhaps ignoring – Trip’s worried expression. “I was thinking I could recalibrate our scanners to have a better range and sensitivity yield, specifically in the area of detonators.”

Trip brings his hand down on the desk just so that it’s covering the scanner. “Malcolm,” he repeats firmly, “give it a rest. You can do this any time.”

But Malcolm just shakes his head rapidly, like a dog trying to dry itself off. Trip notices his brown hair has become mussed and tangled.

“We were lucky,” Malcolm says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “If we hadn’t been so lucky, you could be dead.”

“And you,” Trip adds, but his friend doesn’t hear him.

“What happens the next time, when luck isn’t on our side? What if it’s the Captain, Commander?” Malcolm looks up, and Trip sees genuine tears dancing in those blue-grey eyes.

“It’s my duty to protect the ship. Her crew.”

“You protected _me_.”

“And what if I hadn’t been able to?”

Trip doesn’t have an answer to this, but Malcolm wasn’t looking for one anyway.

“If mine and Ensign Drake’s schematics are correct,” the lieutenant says, his focus turned back to the scanner, “I’ll be able to upgrade these scanners. They could set off an alert to warn about nearby explosives.”

“And you think you can do this on yer own? One-handed?”

Malcolm pauses. “Of course, not. I’ll have you to assist me.”

“Nuh-uh.” Trip takes a step back. “No way, Malcolm. Sorry.”

The Lieutenant’s gaze snaps up to meet Trip’s, a mixture of anger, betrayal, and sorrow in his eyes. Trip’s heart begins to beat faster, the worry only heightening. Malcolm is becoming obsessive.

“Alright,” the Brit says. “Then I’ll repeat myself: please leave me alone.”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

“Trip- _Commander_.”

“I ain’t yer commander. I’m yer friend.”

“Then bloody act like it.”

The words sting in a way Trip never thought possible. Worse than when Emilia, whom he once thought would be the love of his life, cheated on him. Worse than when his aunt called him a disgrace. Worse than when Archer had chewed him out for the cogenitor incident.

And Trip finds he can’t keep his emotions at bay any longer.

“Give it a _break,_ damnit!” The harshness of his own voice causes Trip to mirror his friend’s wince, but he keeps going. “Yer not on duty. In fact, yer far _from_ it. I don’t want you collapsing down here in the armoury, and I’m willin’ ta bet no one else does either

“If you don’t want me to be yer friend, fine, but I’m still yer commanding officer. Drop the scanner, go back to yer quarters, and get some goddamn rest. That’s an order!”

The armoury and its, fortunately, few personnel fall into a stunned silence. Trip breathes heavily; his mind is whirring; thoughts stumbling over one another.

A small clatter brings him to his senses.

Malcolm’s dropped the scanner onto the table. His bandaged hands are shaking. “Aye, sir,” he whispers, so quiet Trip almost doesn’t catch it.

Malcolm, gaze fixated on the floor, turns and walks away without another word.

Trip doesn’t follow him this time. He remains with his feet glued to the floor, wondering just how much dirt he needs on the two other crewmen to keep this under the wraps.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are all my fics five chapters long?
> 
> A bit of a shorter chapter here. Again. This one's mostly fluff and a bit o' angst. The boys finally get what they deserve! :D
> 
> I'm not one for writing romance, especially using characters that aren't mine, so some parts may be rushed. Sorry about that!

The words hurt Trip almost as much as they hurt Malcolm, and the engineer has to take an hour or two alone in his quarters just to calm the squirming in his stomach. His heart is racing but at least he can actually count the beats again.

Now he only needs to focus on not letting the tears out.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ his mind taunts. Trip buries his face in his pillow and grits his teeth. _Stupid, stupid…_

He should apologize. He _has_ to apologize. There’s no way around that. What Trip dreads is the possibility that he may have ruined their friendship before.

And it all started with that goddamn kiss.

Trip sits up and drops the pillow back onto his bed. No tears have managed to escape, thank god. He doesn’t need swollen red eyes and a voice cracked from crying added to Malcolm’s conscience.

He reaches the officer’s quarters entirely on autopilot; his mind occupied wondering exactly he is going to say. He’s still unsure by the time he buzzes the doorbell. “Malcolm?”

No response. Well, of course not. Trip didn’t expect one.

“I’m coming in,” he warns. Trip enters the door code and steps inside.

The brunet lies on his left side; his back to Trip, his face buried in the pillow. He’s curled his legs up, so his knees are at waist level. His left arm is tucked underneath his body; his right stretched out, fingers on the wall. His face is twisted into an expression of pain, but he doesn’t seem to notice Trip. Not yet, at least.

 _I’m in the wrong quarters,_ Trip decides. _This can’t be Malcolm Reed. This can’t be our stoic, mysterious armoury officer. This is some… stranger._

“Malcolm?”

The “stranger” opens one blue-grey eye and his expression morphs into familiar neutrality; all hints of pain disappear. “Yes?” comes the hoarse reply.

“I…” Trip’s mind has gone blank. The apology he had ever so carefully written out in his head has decided to take an early leave. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” he says eventually.

Malcolm scoffs and buries his face deeper into the pillow. “Did you, now?”

Trip ignores the hostility in his voice and answers genuinely. “Yes.”

Malcolm lifts his head again. Despite the tranquil expression, the earlier pain hides behind those icy eyes. He looks like he wants to reply. He opens his mouth but stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away once more.

Sighing, Trip pulls out Malcolm’s desk chair and sits down. For what seems like hours he just sits there, listening to Malcolm’s slightly wheezy yet even breathing.

Eventually, the tactical officer lurches into a sitting position and glares at him. “Why are you here?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you here?” Malcolm repeats, articulating every word. “Other than watching me sleep like some kind of a creep.”

“I wasn’t watching- I wasn’t-”

“Or is it work-related?” Malcolm lets out a scorning laugh that cuts through Trip like a knife. “Perhaps you’ve come as a precursor to a mental evaluation. Or perhaps a physical. Look at this, Commander!” He grabs his right wrist with his left hand and holds it up. “I can’t feel my bloody hand, Trip! My _right_ hand. My dominant hand.” He lets it fall limply back into his lap and stares at it with a broken smirk on his face. “I can’t feel my hand, Trip…” Malcolm’s voice has lost all it’s edge. When he looks up, Trip sees the tears in his eyes.

This isn’t about their argument earlier, the engineer realizes. This is about something which runs deeper than that.

“God…” Malcolm brings his working hand over his eyes and curls forward. Silent sobs wrack his body, his shoulders twitching, and Trip feels like crying too.

He holds the tears down, though. Instead, he crosses the room, seats himself beside Malcolm, and takes the man’s limp hand.

Malcolm jerks at the touch, staring at Trip through his fingers. Trip’s eyes flit up briefly to meet the man’s gaze before gazing back down. Gently, he moves his thumb in a circular motion against the back of Malcolm’s hand. “Can you feel that?” he whispers. Malcolm, his brow furrowed, shakes his head.

“No. What are you doing?”

Trip ignores this question. He gingerly turns Malcolm’s hand over and repeats the same movement against his palm. Underneath the scorch marks, the skin is calloused and rough from years of handling weapons. “Can you feel that?” Trip asks again.

“No,” says Malcolm. While he’s still looking a bit confused, Trip notices his shoulders have relaxed a bit.

Trip intertwines his fingers with Malcolm’s and lifts their hands up at eye level. “What about this?” he asks. “Can you feel this?”

Tears begin to well up in Malcolm’s eyes again. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then swallows, then finally manages a strangled, “no.” He screws his eyes shut and turns away.

“Malcolm,” Trip whispers. “Look at me.”

Malcolm doesn’t budge.

With his free hand, Trip gently turns the lieutenant’s chin to face him. “Look at me,” he encourages again. “Look at _this._ ” Trip gives their hands a small shake. “You can’t feel this. Does that mean it’s not happenin’?”

“Commander…”

“That’s Trip to you, Malcolm. Answer my question. Just because you can’t feel this, does that mean it’s not there?”

Malcolm blinks. “Of course not.”

“Exactly.” Trip tightens his grip around the officer’s hand. “Yer arm hasn’t fallen off, Malcolm. Phlox said the sensation should come back on its own.”

“Yes, I know, but…”

“’But’ what, Malcolm?” Trip’s voice has softened now. He searches those blue-grey eyes hastily, prepared to tackle any sort of self-doubt they may contain. “Yer not useless. Yer just… temporarily out of commission. Hell, so am I.”

A corner of Malcolm’s lips quirks upward at this, and Trip finds himself thinking, _why was I looking at his lips?_

“It’s worse,” Malcolm says finally. “My balance is off. I can’t aim like I used to. Everywhere I go, these damn bandages just attract everyone’s attention and I just-” he cuts off abruptly.

Trip leans into him, urging him to continue. “You…?”

“I’m… scared.” Malcolm is barely audible. “And I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t be scared, should I? I’m the bloody tactical officer. I can’t afford to be scared. That’s why I was… working on that stupid scanner.” An attempt at a dry chuckle turns into a choked sob. “Bloody hell, I don’t think it would have even worked.”

“With some help,” Trip says, “it could work.”

Malcolm looks at him. “But not right now.”

“Not right now,” Trip echoes with a nod.

“It’s just… all been on my mind,” the Lieutenant continues. “Everything from what happened to then to what _could_ happen in the future. And I can’t help wondering… what if I never get my arm back?”

“Then you shoot with yer left,” Trip replies without missing a beat. “I’ve never known Malcolm Reed to turn down a challenge.”

And Malcolm smiles – actually smiles. “No, I suppose not.”

A beat of silence passes, but it’s not awkward in the slightest. Trip sighs and slowly begins to untangle his fingers from Malcolm’s, when another hand stops him. Malcolm is staring at him, blue-grey eyes pleading. “Stay,” he whispers. “Please.”

There’s almost a child-like quality in his words, as if he were asking Trip to scare away the monster under the bed.

“Okay,” Trip says softly. “I’ll stay.”

They don’t talk for a good long while. Their hands remain intertwined, with Malcolm attempting to move his fingers every so often. Trip encourages him with a small squeeze and Malcolm smiles. His eyes shine with a light Trip thought was lost.

Eventually, Malcolm breaks the silence.

“Trip.”

“Yeah?”

“What happened that night?”

“It wasn’t aimed at us, if that’s what yer asking. Some kind of-”

“No, not the explosion. I mean just before.”

Trip freezes and sputters out, “oh.”

“And, I know we agreed to forget…” Malcolm trails off, looking at Trip with concern. Trip gives him a reassuring nod. “…but I suppose that I may have drank a little too much, because, honestly, I can barely remember what happened. The one thing I remember quite clearly, however, is _that_.”

“Oh,” says Trip again.

Malcolm lifts his head and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

Trip feels his face heat up. “What else is there to say?”

A pause. “I see your point.”

Malcolm yawns and leans his head back on Trip’s shoulder. Trip closes his eyes and buries his face in the man’s hair, taking in the scent of allergen-friendly soap mixed with the various burn creams Phlox keeps around.

“I was surprised, though.”

Trip’s eyes open. “Surprised?”

“Surprised that you waited so long.”

Even at this angle, Malcolm’s boyish smirk is plain as day on his face. Trip feels his face go even redder than before. “I’m sorry,” is all he can spit out.

Malcolm, once again, looks up. “Sorry? For what?”

“I-I dunno.” Trip rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor. Malcolm leans forward to follow his gaze, eyebrows knit in confusion and concern.

“Trip.”

“Mhm?”

“Trip.”

“I said, wh-”

The engineer is cut off abruptly as Malcolm presses their lips together, and Trip feels his eyes close on their own.

The kiss can’t have lasted for more than two seconds but it feels like eternity. Nevertheless, when it ends, Trip finds himself longing for more.

Malcolm’s hand is still gripping Trip’s collar; their gazes locked. “I was going to say,” says the brunet, “that I regretted our time together was cut short.”

Trip gives a lopsided grin and raises his own hand to touch Malcolm’s shoulder. “Not your fault,” he murmurs. “Besides. It seems we have a long time to spend catching up.”

“Indeed,” says Malcolm. Then he yawns

“Gettin’ sleepy, Lieutenant?” Trip teases. He can’t help but notice just how much the other man’s face shines when he laughs.

“Sleepy, yes. Not sure if I’ll be able to _sleep_ , however.” Malcolm sighs. “Bloody nightmares…”

“Phlox could probably give you somethin’.”

“I don’t like being put to sleep via drugs.”

Trip shrugs. “Fair. How about this, then: I’ll stay with you.”

The confusion and horror on Malcolm’s face is so innocent and Trip just has to laugh. “Don’t worry, Malcolm, not like _that._ But if yer waking up in a cold sweat or somethin’, I’ll be right here.”

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Malcolm nods.

Trip sits with one knee up and one leg down, gently brushing Malcolm’s brown hair. A memory comes back, one of him doing the same thing while Malcolm lay half-crushed under rubble. “Don’t worry,” Trip finds himself whispering. “I’m here this time.”

Malcolm grabs him by the wrist so suddenly Trip almost topples over. He manages to break his fall just in time, coming face to face with the man he once thought was a complete and utter mystery. Now, the man is smiling. “Get down here,” he mutters drowsily. A hand rests on the side of Trip’s head. Malcolm brings his face closer, closer, until their foreheads are touching, and Trip can feel the other man breathing. The nearness overwhelms him, but only for a moment, and Trip’s grin reaches from ear to ear. He brings his hand up to Malcolm’s and twirls circles against his skin.

And then Malcolm pulls himself even closer and buries his face against Trip’s chest, and Trip realizes he’s crying.

“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asks, his brow creased in worry. Trip shakes his head and attempts to wipe the tears from his face. Unfortunately, they’re quickly replaced.

“Nothin’,” he whispers. “Nothin’ at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So does Malcolm ever get his right arm back? Who knows? :O It's up to you I guess... heheheh.


End file.
